Comme Dans l'Histoire
by AMarguerite
Summary: A fic in which Sir Percy meets Marguerite for the first time, blushes profusely, and engages in the noble sport of cravat watching. Paul Déroulède and Sir Andrew make appearances, and Marguerite acts the part of Pysche. Multi chaptered! COMPLETE!
1. In Which Sir Percy is Bored

Disclaimer: These characters belong to Baroness Orzcy- they all belong to her except for several minor characters that I invented.

A/N: This fic is respectfully dedicated to my two beta- readers, Sarah and Polly. Thank you very much! There is also a smattering of Latin (apologies to Latin scholars- I am merely an amateur and know not how to conjugate, etc.): _claudus lactuca _means (roughly) defective lettuce, _mortalis plaga _means (roughly) mortal wound, _advena_ means stranger, and _suffoco ango _is (roughly) suffocate and strangle.

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Sir Percy was dreadfully bored. He had already conversed on general pleasantries—the weather (it was, indeed, likely to rain tomorrow); current fashion (yes, the white lilies were demmed marvelous, save for the fact that nearly every woman in the theatre, where the banquet was held, was wearing one, and their combined scent was rather nauseating); the king's planned hunting party (a shame he had disbanded his royal hunting train, and Sir Percy had, yes, thank you for inquiring, indeed missed fox hunting since he left England); and the Flanders regiment (Sir Percy had no idea why a banquet had been prepared in their honor, though, from conversation, he had gleaned that not many other people knew either, and were just as unwilling to admit to it).

Sir Tony was off flirting with a young mademoiselle with several lilies pinned to her dress, and Sir Andrew was politely discussing the current political situation with a young officer of the Flanders regiment. Sir Percy was supposed to be involved in the conversation as well, but had ceased to pay attention and was merely nodding and aimlessly swirling around the champagne in his glass. He did hear "beastly shame", "sounds demmed uncomfortable," and several phrases about the Third Estate that caused Sir Andrew a little consternation, and the soldier to gesture wildly with his wine glass.

Without his friends to entertain him, and having grown rather tired of the soldier's antics and rather depreciating statements, Sir Percy fell back on one of his favorite pastimes: cravat watching.

Inspired by the pastime of a rather hated schoolteacher, cravat watching was founded on the same principal as bird watching, but Sir Percy found cravat watching vastly more entertaining. One would pretend to listen to the conversation, nod or add "Hmmm" at appropriate intervals, whilst secretly observing the cravats of every person and sniggering at those that were improperly tied.

In the company of Sir Andrew and Lord Tony, he had actually developed ways to classify the cravats, giving them Latin names. The three of them had all happened to attend a dreadfully dull ball of Lord Grenville's, and Tony had consumed far more champagne than was probably good for him.

Sir Percy idly scanned the crowd.

A _claudus lactuca_ on the Duc de Leon—his cravat pin was an unfashionable pink, bizarrely enough; the bow drooped, and the ends resembled wilted lettuce.

One officer's cravat was so ragged it looked as if it had been serving its country in the front lines. A…hmm…_mortalis plaga_, rather rare.

Another's was flamboyantly tied, with frills of lace that looked ridiculously out of place on his army uniform—an _advena_.

One marquis with a particularly dour expression was wearing a _black_ cravat that more resembled a Gordian knot than a neck-cloth. The only term for that was "unfashionable" or, quite possibly, "Begad!"

A _suffoco ango_ on the Marquis de St. Cyr, whose cravat was _not_ limp, but was, in fact, so starched it appeared to be choking him.

Sir Percy stifled a snort of laughter in his glass of champagne at the idea of someone actually being strangled by his own cravat. For Sir Percy, the sight of a Frenchman who could not properly tie his own cravat never ceased to amuse.

At once there was a sudden light, ringing sound, like someone tapping on their champagne glass, and the crowd of assembled nobility and others turned to the stage.

Sir Andrew tapped Sir Percy on the shoulder. "Percy, what's going on?"

Sir Percy lifted his eyebrows. "Ffoulkes, my good man, they are going to entertain us! Don't you know they expressly invited a troupe of opera singers to perform a little skit written for the Flanders Regiment by Monsieur Necker?"

"What? Are you serious, Blakeney?"

"No, I made that up entirely. I have no idea why we've all turned to the stage."

"How much have you had to drink, Percy?" There was a note of disapproval in Sir Andrew's tone. He disliked drunkenness—it was inelegant, and Sir Andrew did not like the effects liquor produced in men. There was also an experiment of theirs in boarding school after which Sir Andrew had declared, "Ye gods! I think my liver has been burnt!" that had rather ruined brandy forever for him.

Sir Percy drawled, "I've had a half-glass of champagne—don't worry Ffoulkes. I am just terribly bored. Oh, I spotted a _furibundus plaga_."

Sir Andrew sighed and glanced at the stage. "Our Latin teacher would weep, poor soul."

"Demmed tricky language, Latin, though much simpler than English, actually."

"Sadly, we don't all have your luck with languages."

"At least your French has improved. '_Je veut mangera le poullet'_—I shudder to remember."

"Ha, ha, Percy."

"'_Poullet_' is not even a word in French. In fact, it isn't a word in any language."

Sir Andrew glanced heavenward. "You shall never let me forget that, will you?"

"Well, it was better than when Tony asked if '_le fou peut- être descendre_', or if the fool could come down, when he meant to ask if someone could turn down the fire."

"The fool to come down?" the soldier asked in French. "What a bizarre request."

"Yes indeed, sir," Sir Percy said very seriously.

"Oh," the soldier replied, looking terribly befuddled.

Several uniformed members of the King's Guard made their way onto the stage. "Silence! Silence!"

There was a universal cry for everyone to be silent, the ironic part of it, as Sir Percy noted to himself, being that, in busily accusing their neighbor of noise, each person made more of a clamor than they had originally.

One of the guardsmen, his red nose professing a fondness of liquor that had been indulged frequently that evening, stepped forward and waved his hands about in a weak attempt to make everyone silent.

Eventually, everyone became satisfied in having scolded the noisemakers, and were content to look at the stage in silence.

"The King's Guard," the red-nosed guard announced with a slight hiccup, "is pleased to present a short play for our brothers in the Flanders regiment, written by our own Jean-Luc Jallin—"

The crowd cheered. Several guardsmen and soldiers began waving their caps about, as one of the guardsmen on stage was pushed forward and took several bows.

"Demme… I can't see a thing, Ffoulkes. Let's get closer to the stage."

"Well if _you_ can't see a thing, it is indeed a reason to move," Sir Andrew replied with a laugh. This, of course, referred to Sir Percy's height as he was well over six feet.

The two gentlemen made their way through the cheering mass of Frenchmen and women to the more desirable vantage point of a box that their friend, Paul Déroulède, had wisely claimed.

"Bonjour, Déroulède," Sir Percy drawled, taking a chair. "Mind if Andrew and I join you? 'Tis devilish noisy down there, and one can't see the stage at all."

"Of course," Déroulède replied, a smile lighting up his usually serious features. Having bourgeois ancestry, and having accidentally killed the young vicomte de Marny in a duel, he was not well-liked in court. However, he and Sir Andrew had similar tastes in poetry, and Déroulède was a willing and excellent card-player. Déroulède was glad to have friends, and the three visiting Englishmen were glad to have a fourth at their whist table… and in the hidden parts of their hearts, they were very happy to have befriended a man who was so obviously lonely.

Sir Andrew thanked Déroulède sincerely, and sat.

"Shush, shush, shush," the red-nosed guardsman declared loudly, clapping Jean-Luc Jallin in a congratulatory manner that sent Jallin staggering to the front of the stage. "Where was I? Jean-Luc, where was I?"

Jallin muttered something incomprehensible, and the red-nosed man exclaimed, "Ah! Yes. The King's Guard is pleased to present a short play for our brothers in the Flanders regiment, written by our own Jean-Luc Jallin, and performed by the talented actors and actresses of the Comédie Française."

There was another round of applause, _sans_ waving caps. Sir Percy placed his champagne glass on the ledge of the box.

The curtains had parted, revealing a setting of what appeared to be an ancient Greek temple, surrounded by an olive grove.

"They forgot to tell us what the play is," Déroulède remarked with a hint of laughter in his voice.

"Some adaptation of a Greek legend, I suppose," Sir Andrew murmured, leaning on the rail in front of his chair. "I don't know—"

"_Te tarait tu_!" cried someone, who, angered into bad manners, had addressed Sir Andrew with the familiar '_tu_' instead of the more appropriate and respectful '_vous._'

Two actors walked onstage adorned in Grecian tunics, and began talking loudly. From what Sir Percy gathered, the actor with brown hair was trying to marry the daughter of the man with gray hair.

"But my dear sir," the brown-haired man protested, "the girl is a fit consort for a god! Why let her beauty waste away in spinsterhood?"

"If she is a beauty fit to be a consort to a god, what gives you any chance?" the disgruntled father replied, to the laughter of the slightly inebriated audience. "Psyche is worshiped as a goddess. The temples of Venus have been abandoned in her favor—and no wonder! She is more ready to bestow a smile than that dour statue."

The crowd laughed again, and the play continued.

The two men bantered on, with groan-inducing puns at times and then… Psyche appeared.

Being familiar with the myth, Sir Percy knew Psyche was supposed to be a beauty that rivaled the _goddess_ of beauty, Venus. But he had never imagined her quite so… breath-taking.

Two adoring men in tunics strewed rose petals in front of her, and, blushing, eyes downcast, smile uneasy and demure, a vision of loveliness walked onstage.

From his close vantage point, Sir Percy could notice every detail. The woman before him had a regal figure, swathed in a pristine white tunic, and red-brown curls that had a highlight of gold in them from the stage lights. Her profile was delicate, and when she looked up to answer a question from her father, Sir Percy could scarce draw breath.

She had beautiful eyes, a blue that was nearly purple, and long, dark lashes. The sweet, almost childlike mouth, the straight chiseled nose, round chin, classic brow, and delicate throat seemed all to contribute to a singular beauty Sir Percy had never before seen. Enthralled, he leaned forward.

At last, she spoke, with gentle respect toward the father. "My dear sir, I am uneasy at such worship—it belongs to the immortal gods, not I."

The voice was low and musical. '_It's no wonder she's an actress,' _Sir Percy thought in slight awe. _'She could pass herself off as a goddess, a princess, a queen! Demmit, I wish I had gone to the theatre instead of the opera, when I had the chance.'_

"Déroulède… who is that?" Sir Percy inquired softly.

Déroulède squinted at the stage in minor befuddlement. "Psyche, I think. I can't follow this play at all. It's so disjointed."

Sir Andrew, sounding somewhat appalled, added, "Odd's fish! This dialogue is painful. The actors themselves wince at the lines. Look!"

True enough, Psyche recited a rather trite and stupid-sounding line about love, winced momentarily, and delicately escaped offstage.

It seemed foolish that a tale as difficult to stage as that of Psyche and Eros had been turned into a one-act play. With every line, the playwright seemed to want to put the actors through abject misery or a torturous lesson in either stupidity or insipidity, or at least the reasons why the Comédie Française mainly performed the works of Moliére. Yet the actors just barely managed to pull it off.

Regardless of the extremely disjointed plot, the lines that fell painfully flat when striving for laughs, and the baffling dialogue between some of the actors, Sir Percy found himself entertained. Psyche's older sisters were talented actresses who took delight in having horribly nasty characters, and one could tell they invented the wittier lines of the play as they spoke. Eros, who fell in love with Psyche after stabbing himself with one of his arrows, was a blonde fellow with snow white wings that kept getting caught in the scenery. He managed to deliver his lines with considerable aplomb, even though he happened to be stuck in one spot for the main scene between him and Psyche. Venus looked a bit like Queen Marie Antoinette, and was properly cold toward Psyche, but though rather pretty, her beauty was nothing in comparison to Psyche. Persephone was very pale and thin, a very convincing queen of the dead even when she tripped over the wing that had fallen off Eros's costume. Sir Andrew commended her for ignoring what appeared to be a rather painful incident and keeping the play moving. The actors who portrayed the gods were sufficiently god-like and managed to deliver the stupidest lines of the play with straight faces. Déroulède commented under his breath at the talent of the actor playing Zephyr, the wind, who had to wear a ridiculous mask, had to carry Psyche from place to place, as well as the elder sisters, and was not in the least perturbed when Eros's wing caught fire. Very calmly, he had beaten out the fire with a cloth from back-stage, and then dragged the rather charred-looking actor off-stage. The audience thought it part of the play and applauded loudly.

Psyche was the best of all. She was all pathos—when she was on stage, no one could keep their eyes off her, and many ladies sniffed discreetly into their handkerchiefs when Psyche discovered who her husband was (Eros having married her, in this rather odd version, on the grounds that he wear a mask that make him look like Punch of 'Punch and Judy' puppet- show fame and that she never took it off) and was summarily cast off.

When she wept openly at her loss, one actually thought she wept openly. As she went through a poorly written monologue in which she described the first task she had to perform to win Venus's approval and met with Eros once again, it soon became evident that she was altering the lines until the monologue was actually passable.

The next tasks she performed underwent a drastic and spontaneous rewrite. Venus stood regally onstage, and Psyche delivered a monologue on how she had accomplished the task. It worked very well, though Déroulède muttered that he could see the playwright standing in shock.

At last, when Psyche was accepted by Venus as Eros's wife, everyone applauded, with cries of "Brava!"

The curtain fell after the actors took their bows, and Sir Percy sat a moment, somewhat dazed.

"That was the longest ten minutes of my life," Sir Andrew muttered, looking at his pocket-watch in incredulity.

"Well, Mademoiselle St. Just pulled it off, as always," Déroulède remarked, with a laugh. "There is no doubt that she is the best actress in Paris."

"Mademoiselle St. Just?" Sir Andrew questioned, rising from his seat.

"Yes—Psyche."

At that, Sir Percy stood. "You know her, Déroulède?" His heart seemed to beat in his throat, and it took a supreme amount of self-control to feign disinterest.

"Yes," Déroulède replied, standing as well. "Her salon is the most popular in Paris. She never turns anyone away, and the conversation that abounds there is a pleasure: always highly intellectual, entertaining, and inclusive."

Sir Percy nodded and toyed with his eyeglass, hoping no one noticed how unsettled he felt.

"Would you like to meet her?"

At last! The question Sir Percy had longed to hear! Oh, that he—

"Of course!" Sir Andrew replied. "She is to be congratulated for an excellent performance."

Well, at least someone had answered correctly. Sir Percy mentally kicked himself. '_Blakeney, you demmed fool!'_


	2. In Which Sir Percy is Flustered

"Well, this way," Déroulède called, exiting the box. He led them backstage, though Sir Percy later could not recall exactly how they got there or what exactly they did until he found himself congratulating Zephyr on his calm. The actor left, smiling cheerfully, and the actress who played Venus, or rather, Aphrodite (the play was apparently set in Greece, not Italy, though Sir Percy hadn't really been paying attention to that) walked out into the greenroom.

"That was one of the worst performances," Aphrodite remarked, smoothing out the red dress she had donned. "Poor Pascal—he's absolutely mortified about his wings. Help me put on my necklace?"

"_Oui,"_ replied the musical voice of Mademoiselle St. Just. Sir Percy casually leaned against the wall in the hopes of seeing her behind Aphrodite, with no luck.

"I'm glad Mathieu had the presence of mind to put out the flames," Aphrodite continued, examining herself in a nearby mirror. "It would've been horrible if the theatre went up in flames."

"Let us be glad it didn't then," Mademoiselle St. Just replied, laughing merrily. "I know Eros, the god of love, sets the hearts of people aflame with passion, but it would've been quite another thing if he set fire to the stage!" Sir Percy still couldn't see her, much to his distress. How long did it take to put on a necklace anyway?

"Done? Here, let me help you with yours." Aphrodite turned, and Mademoiselle St Just appeared.

If such a thing were possible, she was even more beautiful than on stage. Her auburn curls had been swept up elegantly, a cluster of violets holding them in place. Her dress was a violet that matched her eyes, superbly styled to show her figure to its best advantage, with delicate cascades of lace around her shoulders and the ends of her half- sleeves. A pearl, dangling from a silver chain about her neck, absorbed the light and seemed to add luminance to her complexion. Sir Percy wondered if one could go blind from looking at so much beauty at once.

He didn't realize that he had actually said it, until Mademoiselle St. Just glanced at Aphrodite and both hid their smiles behind their hands.

Sir Percy blushed furiously, at once wishing that- one, he was not blond and susceptible to blushing furiously; two, he was not British and also prone to blushing excessively at everything; and three, that he was less stupid, and thus would not absently say things that would cause him to blush. He turned and informed the elder sisters of Psyche that their performances were magnificent, and was relieved to find one of them blushing as they thanked him.

"Come, Blakeney—you must meet Mademoiselle St. Just," Déroulède called, waving him over.

How was it that, at that moment, his deepest desire was to meet this woman _and_ to run away from her in acute mortification? He willed himself to stop blushing, managed to do so with moderate success, and came forward.

"Mademoiselle St. Just, allow me to introduce Sir Percy Blakeney, and Sir Andrew Ffoulkes."

Mademoiselle St. Just smiled graciously and replied in slightly accented English, "I am very pleased to meet you."

"Sir Percy, Sir Andrew, this is Mademoiselle Marguerite St. Just, the best actress Paris has to offer."

Mademoiselle St Just laughed. "You shall make me very vain, Monsieur Déroulède. But it is _still_ a pleasure to meet you both." She extended her hand to Sir Andrew, who kissed her fingertips politely with a calm, "I must commend you on a marvelous performance," and then, she extended her hand to Sir Percy.

Not trusting himself to speak, he smiled at her and ceremoniously kissed the tips of her fingers. He gathered his courage after releasing her hand and remarked in (flawless, not that he meant to brag) French, "It is not every day one meets the most beautiful actress in France, Mademoiselle—I believe the pleasure is all ours."

He was rewarded with a cheerful laugh. "La, sir! I shall grow very vain indeed!"

"Highly doubtable," Déroulède replied mildly. "How is your brother Armand?"

"He struggles with his muse, who seems to have deserted him, leaving him only to scowl at his paper and try to rhyme 'Mademoiselle' with 'joli'," Mademoiselle St Just remarked rather flippantly. "Your guests are from England?"

"We hail from that fair country," Sir Percy replied.

"Though we have been visiting France for several months," Sir Andrew added pleasantly.

Mademoiselle St Just linked her hands together and looked very interested. "_Vraiment? _How do you like France?"

"It has beauties unparalleled in other countries," Sir Percy answered carefully.

He was rewarded with another warm smile from Marguerite St Just. "You have traveled much, then?"

"When I was young, yes; I lived in Paris for several years, Berlin for fewer, and various cities in Italy for even fewer. I've spent the past few years in Great Britian."

"And you, Sir Andrew?" she inquired politely. "Have you traveled much?"

"Not in years, Mademoiselle."

"Well, I hope you enjoy France, in that case. I'm glad you could be here for the summer—it is beautiful here in the summer."

"Indeed," Sir Percy replied. "Déroulède has been kind enough to show us the sights of Paris. There is much to be admired—things have changed since I last visited."

Mademoiselle St Just laughed again. Sir Percy could not figure out what he had said that caused amusement, but was glad to have at least entertained the beauty before him.

"I should hope they have, Sir Percy. Certain things were in need of change."

"I must agree," Déroulède added pleasantly.

Sir Percy paused, a bit of his mind telling him that there was more to the comment than he was picking up on. However, being around Mademoiselle St Just had the unnerving tendency to make him forget his own name. He had actually tried to figure out who the 'Sir Percy' Mademoiselle St Just was referring to was, before realizing that it was himself. He contented himself with a very cryptic remark that could have been found in Aesop's fables: "There's no stopping change."

"Right," Sir Andrew agreed, somewhat uncertainly. He shot Sir Percy a look as if to say, "What on earth is everyone talking about?" which Sir Percy ignored.

"I hope you have not become homesick for England," Mlle. St Just remarked, somewhat abruptly. "I have heard it is much greener there."

"It is," Sir Percy agreed, wishing he had something more interesting to say. "Have you ever been there?"

"Only once, as a schoolgirl at the convent. I haven't been there in years, and I never got to visit any place other than England. I would like to travel, though. I've always wondered if Ireland is quite so romantic as I am lead to believe."

"Ireland is very romantic—you might be interested in it, Mademoiselle, as it contains some of the greenest land that side of the Channel."

"Shall we move out?" Aphrodite questioned as she claimed the arm of Sir Andrew with a coquettish smile. "The banquet shall start soon."

The others agreed, and they walked on. Sir Percy took pains to claim the arm of Mademoiselle St Just.

Mademoiselle St Just was as eager to resume their discussion as Sir Percy was, for which he was extremely glad. "Do you travel to Ireland often?"

"From time to time—I find Ireland very restful. It is a beautiful place, but I find I prefer Bath. It is a city in England, Mademoiselle, well-known for its Roman baths and the restorative qualities in its waters."

"Nice, I think, has a better reputation than Bath," Mademoiselle St Just demurred, glancing at him from underneath her eyelashes.

Sir Percy raised his eyebrows. "I shall concur that the Nice is more famous than Bath, has more to offer than Bath, and, indeed, it has Roman ruins too. But as nice as Nice is, it drowns in its own fame. I much prefer Bath—there is something to be said for its calm moderation."

"A certain quaintness, I should think," Mademoiselle St Just remarked pertly, a playful glint in her (stunningly blue) eyes.

Sir Percy felt his spirits rise to the occasion. He winced as if in pain and exclaimed, "Ow!" He pressed his hand to his heart and abruptly stopped walking.

"Sir Percy!" Mademoiselle St Just exclaimed with concern, placing her other hand on his arm. "Are you all right? Are you hurt?"

Sir Percy took a deep breath and sighed, shutting his eyes as if in pain. "Only my pride as an Englishman, my dear mademoiselle." He opened one eye and looked at her. "Never call England 'quaint' within the hearing of any Englishman or woman—it is the surest way to insult them." Fully recovered from his mild fit of histrionics, he opened his other eye and smiled at her.

Mademoiselle St Just relaxed her anxious grasp on Sir Percy's sleeve and laughed happily. "La, sir! You would make a fine actor." She applauded, still laughing, then placed her hand on his proffered arm.

Sir Percy gave a little bow and helped her down a flight of steps into the main theatre. "I thank you. But really, Mademoiselle, England is a marvelous country. Better than France, in some aspects."

Mademoiselle St Just raised a slender eyebrow. "Better than France, Sir Percy?"

"In some aspects, yes."

They entered the well-dressed throng and stopped a passing servant to relieve him of some of his burden, in the form of two glasses of champagne. They stood before the staircase, slightly apart from the masses, and close to the stairs to the boxes.

"Well, Sir Percy," Mlle St Just commented pertly, "You shall have to prove that statement." She took a sip of champagne and glanced at him over the rim, managing to look perfectly adorable _and_ make Sir Percy forget the witty sally he was going to respond with.

"Er… of course," Sir Percy managed to say. He took a fortifying sip of champagne. "Name anything, and I shall defend the superiority of my fair homeland, and you, yours."

"All right," Mademoiselle St Just replied pushing a curl of hair behind her ear. Sir Percy tried very hard to look away, but succeeded only when the curl was safely tucked out of sight. "Climate: France has a great variety of climates. Should you wish for warmth, visit the South of France. Colder and wetter weather, go north. For a more equitable climate, reside in Paris."

"I must protest on behalf of the equitable clime found in Britain. Though it… does rain a good deal, you shall not find greener land in France—even in the North. Paris gets awfully gray at times."

"I believe the challenge was one of climate not color. Thus, the superiority of France's climate is proved." With a charitable smile that made her eyes glint with playful good-humor, she added, "I shall cede the color scheme to England."

"Most kind of you, Mademoiselle. I shall offer playwrights. England's playwrights are superior to those of any other part of the world."

She placed a hand on her hip defiantly. "Better playwrights than France? Sir Percy, I beg to differ! What of Molière? And what of poets? Pierre de Ronsard writes most eloquently. "

"Shakespeare can best the two of them combined," Sir Percy replied, forcing himself to sound properly detached.

"Seems against your British reserve," she teased. "All literary talent in one man?"

"There are exceptions, m'dear mademoiselle," he replied. "However, I believe the debate was on playwrights, not poets."

"I was trying to give you a fighting chance," Mademoiselle St Just protested. "You choose to argue with an actress over whether her country's playwrights are better than Britain's—my dear sir, I have heard how much the British value fair play, and I merely sought to extend the same courtesy in France as you would receive in England!"

Sir Percy had no idea what to say to this, his mind startlingly blank as he smiled at Mademoiselle St Just. She did indeed look lovely. Sir Percy absently wondered if his cravat were straight, and if his hair were all safely secured by his black hair ribbon.

But he could not bask in the smiles of his lovely companion forever. He averted his eyes to his champagne glass, took a sip, and then remarked, "Speaking of plays, my dear mademoiselle, why did your company choose to present…_this_ play?"

She winced, raising the hand previously on her hip to her temple, as if trying to forget the performance. "The King asked us specifically to perform the play written by the Guardsman—Monsieur Jollin is a favorite of His Majesty, and when His Highness discovered Monsieur Jollin had the urge to turn playwright, Monsieur Jollin was indulged, and we were summoned."

"It was certainly very obliging of you."

"For a royal request, one must oblige." There was a slight undercurrent to her tone that marred the beauty of its sound. It gave Sir Percy pause, and made him feel as if there was _something_ he couldn't quite grasp prancing tantalizingly out of reach.

He promptly decided to change the subject. "Your performance was amazing, Mademoiselle. Allow me to tell you that you are the most talented actress in Paris."

Mademoiselle St Just laughed merrily, as was her wont. "La, sir! I think you exaggerate."

"I think not," Sir Percy replied before thinking. Mademoiselle St Just glanced at him curiously, as if she didn't know quite what to make of him. Immediately, Sir Percy flushed and continued with, "I mean, m'dear mademoiselle… that, ah…." He cast around for something to say, floundering momentarily and angry with himself for it. "You must not think I am an idle flatterer. If you think that, then you shan't believe a word I say, and what shall become of my defense for Britain? Don't doubt my sincerity, or my dear homeland shall be poorly represented."

He smiled in relief, and was heartily glad to see his smile returned.

"I shan't, sir," she replied, gaily. She seemed a bit lost as to what to say next, and stalled by sipping her champagne.

Sir Percy forced himself to think of some sort of conversation whilst restraining himself from fiddling with the lace on the ends of his sleeves. He played idly with his spyglass instead. "I have one question, though—what was going on with the wings?"

This revived Mademoiselle St Just to her former good spirits. She smiled, smoothed the front of her violet skirt, and archly inquired, "Wings, sir? What wings?"

"The ones attached to Monsieur Eros's back. I'm sure you noticed them—they were the ones that caught fire."

"Ah, those. They were rather hard to miss, were they not?"

"Indeed," Sir Percy agreed.

"You must forgive him for those—he got the wings ten minutes before we went on. And… he received some rather upsetting news on the way to Versailles… about his brother, that is, and he was very worried."

"It is amazing then, that he was able to go onstage and act as well as he did."

Mademoiselle St Just played with the silver bracelet adorning her right wrist. "Sometimes it is a relief to pretend you are someone you are not."

"I must agree," Sir Percy added quietly, more to himself than to Mademoiselle St Just. She smiled at him more warmly than before, and Sir Percy felt his heart pound furiously somewhere in the region of his throat. He felt a particular sense of kinship with her—it was as if their souls had glanced at each other and smiled.

Of course, that had to be the moment when Eros, pale and terribly distraught, clutching a crumpled note in his fist, walked into him, making Sir Percy spill champagne everywhere—the floor, the hem of Mademoiselle St Just's dress, and the sleeve of Sir Percy's elaborately embroidered gray silk jacket.


	3. In Which Sir Percy is Thoughtful

A/N: Thank you very much for your kind reviews! To answer nebulia, the title actually means "Like in a story", but it sounds so much better in French than English. ;-D.

* * *

Vainly attempting to brush champagne from the sleeve of his jacket, Sir Percy turned to Mademoiselle St Just and said, "I'm so demmed sorry, Mademoiselle — I hope your dress is all right."

She quickly examined the hem of her skirt and swatted at it, making her bracelet sparkle and wink at him. "It's fine Sir Percy, thank you. I hope your coat is salvageable." She turned to Eros with some concern, and murmured, "Pascal, are you all right? You look ill."

"My brother," he replied brandishing his crumpled note, "Alain, he…." The actor closed his eyes and pushed his wavy blond hair out of his eyes.

Sir Percy felt a twinge of severe annoyance that any blond actor with ridiculous hair that wasn't long enough to be drawn back properly had the audacity of intruding upon his conversation with Mademoiselle St Just. Moreover, said actor had the privilege of an acquaintance with Mademoiselle St Just long enough to allow them to be on first-name terms, serving to gall Sir Percy further. But he suppressed the feeling and commented with a lazy drawl, "Lud, Monsieur, is there something we can do?" Sir Percy glanced at his sleeve with distaste before deciding it was best to ignore it.

The actor opened his eyes, seemingly aware of Sir Percy's presence for the first time. In mild confusion, he glanced at the marble floor, Sir Percy's empty champagne glass, and the damp spot on Sir Percy's sleeve. "Oh, I'm sorry, sir — I fear… I am at fault for that…."

"You are, but I forgive you," Sir Percy replied pleasantly. "I never cared much for this coat — the buttons are monstrous, and I don't much care for the cuffs. Odd's fish, I meant to get another, and now I have the perfect excuse."

Mademoiselle St Just glanced at him as though unsure of who he was, and 'Pascal' blinked in him in mild astonishment.

"Ah…" the actor muttered.

"Sir Percy Blakeney, baronet, at your service," Sir Percy drawled, bowing.

"Ah… Pascal Dumasque," he replied, recovering himself somewhat, and managing to bow.

"Pleasure to meet you Monsieur, except for the fact I'll need to go to the tailor's— it looks like rain tomorrow, and it will be demmed difficult to get to Paris."

"I apologize most sincerely," Dumasque murmured, looking embarrassed. "I just received a note concerning my brother's health." He began to get very pale once more. "My brother… my younger brother, Alain, he…."

"_Dieu_, you look fit to faint!" Mademoiselle St Just exclaimed. She looked at Sir Percy pleadingly.

Any objections he had previously held against the actor who had ruined his coat vanished entirely. She had lovely eyes — such an unusual shade of blue. Or was it violet?

"Er… let me help you, my good fellow," Sir Percy managed to stammer. He hooked his arm underneath the actor's, and led him to one of the chairs on the floor of the theatre. Dumasque collapsed gratefully into a chair with a muttered '_merci,_' and put his hand over his eyes.

Mademoiselle St Just swept out her skirts and sat in another chair, turning it so she could face Dumasque.

Sir Percy quickly took one of the other chairs in the row and interposed it between Mademoiselle St Just's and Dumasque's. For propriety's sake, of course.

"Would you like some champagne?" Mademoiselle St Just asked, offering her own glass.

"I don't touch the stuff," Dumasque replied, his voice rather quiet. "Too many bubbles."

"Ah," Mademoiselle St Just said.

"Is there any way we can help you?" Sir Percy inquired politely, forgetting to drawl.

"I… don't know," Dumasque sighed rather jaggedly, as if the expelled breath had gotten caught on his held — back tears.

"What happened to Alain, Pascal?" Mademoiselle St Just asked, setting her glass on the ground. Sir Percy was again irked that she seemed very familiar with 'Pascal', his irritation stemming, Sir Percy rationalized, from the years of lessons in propriety and manners drilled into him as a schoolboy.

The actor remained as he was, his general mien as of one who is suffering severely; with his elbows balanced on his knees, he covered his face with his hands.

Despite himself, Sir Percy was curious. He roundly and silently scolded himself for such curiosity — a breech of good manners if there ever was one, seeing as how he scarcely knew the gentleman in question.

After a few moments to regain composure, Dumasque spoke, very slowly and with frequent pauses, though his tone was mostly even and calm.

"My brother, Alain… he's very ill. You know…you know how he has ambitions of being a poet, despite my arguments that he…that he couldn't make a living of poetry…and he was…he would be much better off as…as a playwright, correct?"

"_Oui_," Mademoiselle St Just murmured softly, toying with her bracelet once more. Sir Percy wondered if it was entirely proper for him to be present, or quite entirely polite, but a glance at Mademoiselle St Just seemed to stick him to his seat, and he didn't move.

"Well… he has…a very poetic nature…that my mother saw fit to nurture. I…I never saw the use for it — it was impractical…my father would've…would've frowned on it, had he been alive. Of course…he fell…deeply, I suppose, in love with…." He trailed off and looked up, glancing at Sir Percy.

"Sir Percy is completely trustworthy," Mademoiselle St Just assured him, with a fond smile directed at Sir Percy.

Sir Percy was unsure of what he had done to imprint such a good impression on Mademoiselle St Just, but was too busy delighting in the smile she'd bestowed upon him to care. But he forced himself to look extremely sympathetic, and push all thoughts of Mademoiselle St Just's smiles out of his mind.

Dumasque attempted to smile, lips trembling, and pushed his hair out of his eyes. "Well…Alain fell in love with…a daughter of a marquis." He paused, his shoulders trembling like his lips, and looked down. His hair fell in front of his eyes, and Sir Percy noted (since Sir Percy's gaze remained on Mademoiselle St Just more often than it did on Dumasque) that Mademoiselle St Just had turned very pale, and had twisted her bracelet tight enough for it to be a tourniquet.

Dumasque continued on with his narrative, quieter than before. "He could not repress it like, like a normal person…. Alain wrote her a poem and sent…it to her." Dumasque exhaled softly, in a specter of a laugh. "She was…frightened. Like all sheltered, young b-beauties, or so…plays have, have led me to believe…the, ah… addresses of an unknown man…no, boy, were…disconcerting. She…showed the poem to her father, who…who was furious at Alain's…Alain's…." He trailed off, unsure of the word to use.

"Presumption?" Mademoiselle St Just prompted, voice trembling slightly. "Presumption in loving the daughter of nobility when he was only a simple bourgeois?" She had begun to play with her bracelet in an excess of agitation, and was very pale. Sir Percy supposed it to be out of concern for the fate of Alain, though there was a bite to her tone that one could interpret as anger.

"Exactly," the actor replied, glancing up through his bangs. "You…said it exactly." His voice broke at the end and he retreated under his hair once more.

An uncomfortable silence followed. Mademoiselle St Just played with her bracelet in agitation, whilst Dumasque slowly regained his composure; leaving Sir Percy sitting and feeling useless as he wondered at her reaction. "And your brother?" Sir Percy inquired gently, to break the silence.

"Alive, but scarcely." Dumasque smoothed out the crumpled paper he had been clutching. "Alain was…attacked. We couldn't find him for…what was it…two days? He was fond of long walks…at night, of all the…stupid times, on the outskirts of Paris. A friend… found him this afternoon." The actor paused, cleared his throat and continued very shakily. "He's at home…and…a new message was sent…just now. The doctor, he says…Alain won't…he might not…in this case…he's afraid…." He swallowed audibly. "I shall have to support them all…. I can't…he was to help…even…his poetry was helpful…now…I'm…alone in this."

"I'm so sorry, Pascal." Mademoiselle St Just withdrew a handkerchief from the folds of her kerchief and handed it to him. They both avoided looking at each other, and Mademoiselle St Just's hands were shaking. Dumasque quietly hid his face behind the double barrier of the lacey handkerchief and his hair.

Sir Percy, withdrawing into himself and averting his eyes to allow those present to regain composure, began to wonder once more at Mademoiselle St Just's reaction. It was clear she was compassionate and kind, but the agitation she displayed seemed to point to particular… fondness for Dumasque. Something inside Sir Percy crumpled, like an old sheet of parchment, and he roughly shoved it aside, in the hopes that ignoring it would cause it to go away. He focused on the story revealed to him, and the distraught actor in front of him. The actor's brother was suffering severely, in a manner not uncommon in France.

The thought of the marquis's behavior was disdainful. That anyone could sully his honor and good name in so dishonorable a fashion over so trivial an offence was abhorrent, and Sir Percy disliked the bad sportsmanship of attacking a lone man at night. It showed a lack of compassion for others that (though Sir Percy would never admit it, no matter who he was talking to) was reviling.

"Shall I get Jacqueline?" Mademoiselle St Just asked, looking composed, although pale. Dumasque nodded. "Sir Percy, will you accompany me?"

It was with some relief that Sir Percy accepted this invitation. At least she did not completely despise his presence, even if she preferred the actor. The thought caused him pain and he pushed it out of his mind.

They walked out of the box, and on the staircase, Mademoiselle St Just happened to remark, "Pascal supports his family entirely…that is partially the reason he is so distraught over Alain's…attack. He had hopes that Alain would assist him — Pascal works almost constantly, and wanted a bit of a break." She was silent, and Sir Percy felt as if his heart had been crushed. It took a great deal of effort to remain composed, but he managed to do so.

"Poor Alain," she murmured. "When I think of what they did…such…outrageous punishment…." Her voice trembled and became slightly harsh. "What that Marquis did cannot be justified…." She had turned paler, and had begun twisting her bracelet. To Sir Percy's questioning look, she replied, "Forgive me sir…I have a brother…." Reluctant to continue, she averted her eyes and walked down the steps to the main part of the theatre.

This gave him pause. What on earth did her _brother_ have to do with Dumasque and _his_ brother's condition? '_Blakeney, you demmed fool!'_ Perhaps her discomposure and agitation had come from knowing the same feelings. It seemed unlikely her brother (Sir Percy wished he had remembered what his name was) had been attacked, but perhaps… her brother had been robbed? In all likelihood, her brother must've suffered some sort of illness, or injury… of course that was it! Sir Percy latched onto this newfound (though, a rational part of his brain pointed out, rather sudden and somewhat unlikely) hope; that Mademoiselle St Just did not, in fact, harbor any feelings besides friendship for Dumasque, and her discomposure resulted solely in unpleasant memories and pity.

Now Sir Percy was able to fully appreciate how compassionately she'd treated Dumasque and his pitiable situation, rooted, as it was, in her sincere concern for her brother, and admire her sympathy. Sir Percy's spirits were instantly revived and his smile was no longer forced.

By unspoken consensus, they agreed not to discuss Dumasque's broken narration, and after Mademoiselle St Just had found 'Jacqueline' (one of her 'sisters') and calmly explained that Jacqueline lived in the apartment above that of the Dumasques', and (as Mademoiselle St Just had reported with a hint of a laugh) had developed a _tendre_ for 'Eros,' they completely ignored the event. Sir Percy had even hummed a few bars of a song after learning that Jaqueline had fallen for the god of love, and not Mademoiselle St Just. However, they found it necessary to walk in silence for some time in order to find the light-hearted playfulness of their previous conversation.

"Well, Sir Percy, how do you find France these days?" Mademoiselle St Just inquired, as they strolled (rather aimlessly) around the theatre.

"Quite beautiful," Sir Percy replied, thoughts of Mademoiselle St Just in mind. When Mademoiselle St Just lifted an eyebrow and smiled, Sir Percy quickly flushed and hastily explained, "Ah…His Majesty's gardens have blossomed quite wonderfully since my last visit. His blooms are spectacular, but nothing in comparison to those in England."

"Superior roses in England?" Mademoiselle St Just exclaimed in mock surprise.

"But of course, Mademoiselle! Our English roses are well- known over all over the world."

"But scarcely as hardy as French roses, sir," she replied pertly.

Sir Percy smiled. "Hardy, Mademoiselle? I had always thought part of a flower's beauty was the fact it was delicate and ephemeral."

"Delicacy is all well and good, but roses must earn their keep, for all the expenses of raising them. If a rose fades and wilts in but a day, wouldn't you think it a poor blossom?"

"Wouldn't it be all the more beautiful because of its short-lived nature?"

Mademoiselle St Just opened her mouth to speak, but was apparently caught off- guard by Sir Percy's rhetorical question. She pushed her hair out of her face, stalling for time. Sir Percy noted, with a peculiar feeling that his heart was somewhere around the region of his throat, that her reddish curls (that fought tenaciously against the confines of its pins) seemed to resemble rose petals.

He was promptly ashamed of such a sentimental metaphor, and vowed he would never let Sir Andrew read any more love poetry aloud: it merely caused stupid thoughts.

"You must consider the symbolic meaning of roses," Mademoiselle St Just replied, with an air of triumph. "Love." She glanced at him from underneath her eyelashes. "My dear sir, don't tell me you'd wish to send your lady love a symbol of your affection that withers away in a day! She would not think you care very much for her." Sir Percy moved to speak, but Mademoiselle St Just interrupted him with a smile. "Say what you will about beauty made all the more lovely because of its short- lived duration in roses, but your lady won't quite see it that way, I assure you."

"Touché," Sir Percy replied quietly, smiling slightly. He was horribly ashamed of himself, but the surprised glance Mademoiselle St Just then favored him with drove all rational thought from his mind. "Er… I think I must concede, Mademoiselle. In that case, French roses are most likely superior — love should be a lasting, enduring thing." Then, promptly ashamed that he _expressed _such a sentimental thought aloud, he blushed.

Mademoiselle St Just glanced at him unguardedly, as if in studying him, she had found something she approved of, and smiled. "How gallant, sir." Her voice was soft, and its musical tones seemed to echo in Sir Percy's brain. '_Gad, I think I've become ill,'_ Sir Percy thought, as he toyed with his spyglass.

"But my dear sir," she continued, more playfully than previously, "why do you blush? It is most becoming, I assure you, but you should feel no need to change your color on my account."

This statement, ofcourse,caused Sir Percy's blush to deepen. '_Blakeney, you utter, utter fool, think of something! And, confound it man, stop blushing!'_

"Er…."

"Ladies and gentlemen," a wigged servant announced loudly. "Pray take your seats. The banquet is to begin shortly."

Silently thanking whatever attending angel had taken pity on him, Sir Percy quickly remarked upon the necessity of finding their friends once more, and finding a seat in the opera boxes, as only the soldiers and the Guardsmen were to sit down to the banquet. Everyone else was present merely to entertain and to be seen in all theirnewest finery. This done, they spotted the box Déroulède had once more claimed, and struggled through the well-dressed crowd to the stairs.


	4. In Which Sir Percy Is Amused

Sir Percy scanned the box before entering. Déroulède sat on the far right, talking animatedly with Sir Andrew and Aphrodite. Their chairs were clustered together, with one chair that held a tray full of drinks. Aphrodite sat towards the middle of the box, and several empty chairs were scattered about the box. Sir Percy and Mademoiselle St Just entered the box to the salutations of the entire party.

"Ah, Marguerite, my dear, where have you been?" cried Aphrodite. She stood somewhat belatedly, the others having risen upon Sir Percy and Mademoiselle St Just's entrance.

Mademoiselle St Just glanced at Sir Percy, a stray curl hiding her marked gaze. Sir Percy looked at her blankly a moment before realizing she wished to be sure of his silence in the matter of Monsieur Dumasque. He nodded, almost imperceptibly, and began to play with his quizzing glass. His traitorous cheeks belied his embarrassment at his stupidity, and Sir Percy furiously and heartily wished to return to his normal coloring.

"Here and there," Mademoiselle St Just rejoined airily. "I see you have claimed an exceedingly good vantage point."

"Hardly, _chérie_," Aphrodite replied, waving her half- empty glass of champagne at Déroulède. "It is all thanks to our dear Paul- he is practical, unlike ourselves."

Mademoiselle St Just laughed. "You seem to have a poor opinion of yourself Fauve, though I shall readily admit that, next to my brother, I am the least practical person in Paris."

"My dear, it seems a proven fact that no actor or actress is at all practical. If we were, we would not be acting." She caught sight of Sir Percy, who had managed to force himself to stop blushing, and raised a thin eyebrow. "Monsieur? I do not have the pleasure of your acquaintance."

"Ah, that is Sir Percy Blakeney, baronet," Sir Andrew interjected. "Percy, this is Mademoiselle Fauve Poudreuse."

Sir Percy bowed, as Mademoiselle Poudreuse curtsied.

Sir Andrew frowned and walked next to his friend. "Blakeney, what did you do to your sleeve?"

Sir Percy glanced at the sleeve of his jacket and discovered that champagne did, indeed, stain gray silk. "But of a run-in with the champagne, Ffoulkes."

"Pity that," Mademoiselle Poudreuse sympathized. "Champagne is so difficult to remove from silk, and the _dosage_ is particularly sweet. Rose _demi-sec _champagnes are always the hardest to wash out. At least it wasn't a desert wine." She lazily sipped her own glass of champagne with a languid smile. "Those leave quite terrible stains."

"Indeed," Sir Andrew replied placidly, as he had nothing more interesting to say.

Sir Percy smiled inanely, wondering just how much champagne Mademoiselle Poudreuse had drunk, and then tried not to look at his sleeve. Mademoiselle St Just glanced at him with a small smile of thanks.

"Oh, do sit," Déroulède said quickly. "The banquet is about to start."

Sir Andrew assisted Mademoiselle Poudreuse into her chair, and Sir Percy promptly helped Mademoiselle St Just into hers. Sir Percy was rewarded with a smile, and sat dazedly in his chair. After a few seconds to gather up his scattered wits (they seemed to be deserting him with startling rapidity as of late), Sir Percy observed his surroundings.

Below the box lay the theatre, sumptuously decorated with fresh flowers and cloth of gold for the banquet, and delicately adorned with the glittering, murmuring nobility in boxes, their gems winking in the candlelight, and their lilies a pale protest against the shadows.

The stage had been cleared thanks to the silent industry of scores of unseen and unnoticed servants, and a table had been set up, with spotless silver on top of neatly pressed white linen. The soldiers and Guardsmen, now seating themselves, were looking a bit worse for wear. Many of their uniforms were stained with wine.

When the men were seated, another play, of sorts, began. The assembled lords and ladies assumed their normal roles as sparkling decorations, and the soldiers calmly began the scene Sir Percy mentally dubbed, "The Banquet, or Drunken Men Pretending They Are Not Drunk and Using Their Very Best Manners".

Sir Percy leaned back in his chair, onto the burgundy velvet cushions, and stretched his long legs in front of him. One particularly drunken lieutenant had fallen asleep in his soup, and his embarrassed dinner partners quickly yanked him up.

"Ah, here everyone is!" came a booming, cheerful voice.

"Ah, Tony!" Sir Percy drawled, retreating behind his normal mask of slight amusement and indifference. He stood, placing a hand on the back of his chair. "I had quite given up on you, old chap."

Tony laughed in response. "Ha, Percy, this is Mademoiselle Camille de Laurent." Mademoiselle de Laurent smiled prettily. She swept her ivory colored skirts out in a curtsey, murmuring, "Charmed."

"And this, Mademoiselle, is Sir Percy Blakeney, a schoolfellow of mine."

Sir Percy bowed. "Mademoiselle."

"And who are these beauties?" Tony inquired with an impertinent grin. Sir Percy turned and saw Mademoiselles St Just and Poudreuse stand.

"I have the great pleasure of introducing you to Mademoiselle Marguerite St Just, who excellently portrayed Psyche, and Mademoiselle Fauve Poudreuse, who was the lovely Aphrodite."

The actresses curtsied as gracefully, if not more so than Mademoiselle de Laurent. Mademoiselle Poudreuse eyed the profusion of lilies on Mademoiselle de Laurent's gown with a slightly wrinkled nose.

Mademoiselle de Laurent, whose smile now appeared a bit forced, inquired, "And… you… both work in the theatre?"

The actresses exchanged an inscrutable look.

"Yes," Mademoiselle St Just replied easily. "His Majesty graciously invited our company to perform Monsieur Jollin's masterpiece." Her tone was decidedly flippant, but her smile was distractingly charming.

Mademoiselle de Laurent's smile seemed to fade in beauty once it was possible to compare it to Mademoiselle St Just's. "You act… as a vocation?"

"_Pardi,_ of course," Mademoiselle Poudreuse replied, raising her eyebrows slightly. "Else we would not belong to a company, and we would not have performed."

"And then we would have been denied the pleasure of your acquaintance," Mademoiselle St Just rejoined, smiling, "a greater tragedy, surely, than that of Julius Caesar."

"Ah," was Mademoiselle de Laurent's terse reply. "And these gentlemen?" she asked with a warmer smile.

"Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and Paul Déroulède," Lord Tony hastened to add.

"Shall we sit?" Sir Andrew asked, noting the tension between the women. "It, um, appears that the, um…." He trailed off helplessly, looking at Sir Percy.

Sir Percy gestured lazily at the hall with his quizzing glass and decided to make something up. "Er, begad! I do believe the colonel is about to make a toast!"

"A toast!" cried the Colonel of the Flanders Regiment. "A toast, my dear friends, to the health of His Majesty, King Louis XVI!"

'_That was extraordinarily lucky,'_ Sir Percy thought with great surprise.

Glasses were dutifully raised by the members of Sir Percy's box, though Mademoiselle de Laurent seemed to have a bit more enthusiasm for the toast than the others.

The colonel was apparently enjoying a very good glass of wine, for immediately after drinking the first toast, he proposed another. "To the health of Her Most Gracious Majesty, Queen Marie Antoinette!"

Once more, the glasses were dutifully raised. This time, Déroulède was even seen to smile. '_Ah, the powers of the royalty,'_ Sir Percy thought, watching in amusement as Sir Andrew forced himself to drink some of the champagne, '_and the amazing influence our etiquette professor had over us.'_

The wine must have been exceptional, for the colonel was inspired to propose yet another toast. "To the health and life of Monseigneur the Dauphin!"

As Sir Percy automatically raised his glass once more and drank, he reflected that, if the wine would continue to inspire the colonel of the Flanders Regiment, it would be hours before he could leave. His gaze happened to stray to Mademoiselle St Just, and Sir Percy decided that remaining in the theatre was for several more hours sounded very pleasant indeed.

After having his cup of wine refilled, the colonel decided that, surely, one more toast would not go amiss, and thus exclaimed, "My friends, let us drink a toast to the health of the royal family!"

Cheers and applause rang out and echoed in the theatre, and glasses of wine and champagne were eagerly downed. Sir Percy had to hide his amusement, however, when the colonel motioned for a refill. He could hear Sir Andrew sigh in weary resignation.

Then one young officer from the King's Guard stood and cleared his throat. Sir Percy was momentarily amused, and wondered how kindly the colonel of the Flanders Regiment would take to someone else proposing a toast.

The officer raised his glass and calmly and quietly proclaimed, "The Nation."

Sir Percy didn't quite know what he had expected. Perhaps he had expected this toast to pass as the others had, with dutiful murmurs seconding the toasts, and raised glasses, or for people to quietly sip their champagne, regardless of their political ideologies. However, he hadn't expected the outcry.

The spectators in the boxes began jeering, with loud declamations against the new government. Shouts of "_Vive le roi!" _were interspersed with calls to restore the absolute monarchy and outraged cries of "No, no!" Sir Percy raised his quizzing glass to his right eye and scanned the crowd. Several people had drunk the toast, some with greater gusto than others, but, mostly, glasses had been placed on ledges and chairs, and the owners of the glasses did not appear inclined to drink.

Several servants appeared and began to warily clear the first course. Their utmost caution, was not, however, rewarded, as one captain managed to spill the contents of a soup tureen all over a footman. This caused a majority of the King's Guard and the Flanders Regiment to roar with laughter, and several footmen to become terribly clumsy and 'accidentally' miss the glasses, and pour wine into several officers' laps.

Mademoiselle St Just hid a laugh in a discreet cough, causing Sir Percy to immediately loose interest in anything outside of the opera box.

"Are you quite all right, Mademoiselle St Just?" he inquired amiably.

"Perfectly," was her amused reply. She reached for her champagne glass in order to promote verisimilitude, her silver bracelet sparkling and winking at him as she did so.

"What a lovely bracelet," Mademoiselle de Laurent commented. "It almost looks like real silver."

Mademoiselle de Poudreuse raised an eyebrow. "It appears to be silver because it _is_ silver. Sometimes, things are _quite_ as they appear." Sir Percy glanced at Mademoiselle St Just to gauge her reaction.

Mademoiselle St Just merely smiled, though the smile appeared rather forced. "Thank you for the compliment, Mademoiselle de Laurent. It was a gift from my brother."

"Oh yes, Armand," Déroulède interjected. "I, ah… hope he's well?"

'_Déroulède to the rescue_,' Sir Percy thought sardonically.

"He is in excellent health, Monsieur. I think you for your kind inquiry." Mademoiselle St Just smiled charmingly and Sir Percy found himself wondering, quite distractedly, if his cravat was straight. He attempted to observe his reflection in his glass of champagne, only to find that bubbly rose- colored champagnes are not quite conducive towards the examination of one's cravat.

"Is there any particular reason for such a show of fraternal affection?" inquired Mademoiselle de Laurent, less than politely.

Quite eager to avoid conflict, Lord Tony suddenly declared, "Ah… look at that Ffoulkes! The, ah… second course is, ah, being served! Or… no wait, they… finished serving it."

"Um," was Sir Andrew's startled reply. He glanced at Mademoiselle de Laurent, who smiled very coldly, with some alarm. Sir Percy attempted to inconspicuously look at Mademoiselle St Just, and noted that her smile had taken on a very brittle quality and that her eyes had darkened to a captivating shade of violet.

"He gave it to me on the day the Bastille fell," Mademoiselle St Just informed Mademoiselle de Laurent, ignoring Lord Tony. "I thank you for your kindness on inquiring," she added brightly, before turning to Mademoiselle Poudreuse.

Mademoiselle de Laurent smirked, with a muttered comment about the "strange ways of the lower classes" and a disparaging remark regarding republican sentiment. Mademoiselle Poudreuse, in turn, crossed her arms and glared at Mademoiselle de Laurent icily, murmuring something about the negative impact of inbreeding in the nobility. Mademoiselle St Just turned rather pink and pressed her lips together.

Sir Percy raised his eyebrows and glanced at Déroulède over his champagne glass. Déroulède was rubbing the bridge of his nose tiredly, apparently having realized that peace can never be restored once one woman has insulted another's accoutrements. Not being able to think of anything terribly foppish to say, Sir Percy was at a loss of what to do for several moments.

"Ah, Mademoiselle St Just," Sir Percy said finally. "I believe you are lucky to have such a compassionate brother." She immediately turned to him with an arch and inquisitive glance. "I was never lucky enough to have siblings, as my… ah… well, I have always assumed it to be a great blessing." He flushed a bit, as he realized, if he had not stopped himself, he would have told her about his mother's insanity. '_Blakeney, you, utter, utter, fool! What on earth could have induced you to try and share that? You know how much Father valued privacy.' _

Mademoiselle St Just smiled, the tension draining from her posture slightly. "I am very lucky to have my brother. My parents died when I was young, and after I was put in the convent, my brother worked to become a lawyer. When I turned seventeen, he managed to set up an apartment for us. I am very grateful to have him as my brother… despite all his whimsies." Her smile was sincere, and though she spoke softly, he could hear the pride and affection that she felt for her brother in her tone.

Suddenly, Sir Percy felt rather lonely, and wondered how it would feel to be loved by someone so unconditionally. This train of thought led him to think of Mademoiselle St Just's fine eyes and extremely pretty smile, and Sir Percy felt himself blushing. Again. "And, ah… is your brother still a lawyer?" It was a stupid question, but other than a furious '_Blakeney you fool!'_ it was all he could think to say.

"He is a representative of the Third Estate, now."

'_Ah_,' Sir Percy thought. '_That answered some questions_.' He was suddenly able to recall a great deal of half- veiled hints in his conversations with Mademoiselle St Just that seemed to imply her political viewpoint. He was surprised, but found that his admiration for Mademoiselle St Just was not at all affected by this information.

"The Third Estate? How droll," Mademoiselle de Laurent half- whispered. "I can't imagine anyone would wish to voluntarily have their name linked with that dreadful group of rebels."

"You seem rather misinformed," Mademoiselle Poudreuse replied, almost off-handedly. "If I am not mistaken, the king's own brother has republican views, and he is hardly a rebel."

"Zounds," Sir Percy interjected, looking down at the floor of the theatre. "They're clearing away the second course already. Déroulède, how many times have the footmen been around with wine?"

"Ten," Déroulède offered, with some relief at the change in subject.

"Begad," Sir Percy replied, somewhat appalled.

"There are women present," Sir Andrew added, looking rather shocked at the breech in propriety. "I can scarcely believe they would something like that."

Mademoiselle Poudreuse managed a smile at that, and turned to her fellow actress. "Observe the desert course, Margot, and the sudden appearance of the military bands. Food has a powerful draw to any man, be he monarch or musician."

"Perhaps they have been practicing," Mademoiselle St Just suggested, lightly, though her cheeks were flushed (quite prettily) with anger. "And their extended absence was only to perfect their music."

"It 'be the food of love,' after all," Sir Percy drawled, gesturing to the band with his quizzing glass. "'Play on!'"

Mademosielle St Just raised her eyebrows. "Quote Shakespeare at me all you like, my dear sir, but you shall not break down my defense of Moliere." She crossed her arms and forced a smile. "I assure you, Sir Percy, I am more than capable of quoting the text of a French play back to you. Even _Twelfth Night_ cannot intimidate me!"

"No," Sir Percy agreed, leaning onto the ledge of the box. "If I should quote at you from a more famous play… _Hamlet_, argumentatively Shakespeare's best work, what would you say? 'Suit the action to the word and the word to the action'."

"'The greater the obstacle, the more glory in overcoming it'," she quoted pertly.

Unable to think of another quote to further the argument, he merely smiled and commented, "'The play's the thing!'"

"'I will maintain it before the whole world'," she quoted, with a genuine smile. Even Mademoiselle Poudreuse seemed a bit more at ease, for which Sir Percy was very grateful. That and the fact that Mademoiselle St Just was smiling at _him_. He was _exceedingly_ grateful for that.

"How droll these actresses are," Mademoiselle de Laurent murmured, laying a gloved hand on Lord Tony's arm. Lord Tony had the good grace to look embarrassed.

Mademoiselle St Just smiled uneasily at Sir Percy, and then turned away, cheeks flushing pink. Mademoiselle Poudreuse began to beat a very fast and impatient tattoo on her left arm. Sir Percy wondered why he suddenly could not find anything foolish to say. He'd been saying foolish things all evening, particularly when he was in the company of Mademoiselle St Just, yet _now_ he had no foppish remark to set everyone at ease.

"The king!" someone cried.

This exclamation was taken up by the whole crowd, with delighted shouts of "The queen!" and "The Dauphin!" added, once they had been spotted.

"Ah- no man can overcome the allure of food," Mademoiselle Poudreuse murmured, "especially not a monarch."


	5. In Which Sir Percy Is In Love

Sir Percy raised his quizzing glass and saw the Royal Family standing on the stage of the theatre. The King was in a sorry state. He was still wearing his riding boots and his clothes were stained with dirt: he had evidently come straight from the hunt. If Sir Percy squinted, he was sure that His Majesty's wig was crooked, and the Royal Visage was streaked with sweat. The Queen looked almost apprehensive as she clutched the young Dauphin to her. She was dressed plainly, in black muslin, with her hair tucked primly into a white cap. The Dauphin, for his part, looked tired and confused, as if he had been dragged from bed. His rumpled clothing seemed to second the notion.

Sir Percy had never seen Their Majesties look more disheveled, or, in fact, less royal.

Gradually, the cheers of the crowd and the cries of "_Vive le roi!"_ served to put Their Majesties at ease, and they smiled graciously at the faithful assembled around them.

The band, hastily shoving sheet music onto their stands, began a shaky rendition of '_O Richard, Mon Roi_'. Eventually, they managed to play in tempo, and fairly in tune, save for one trombonist who kept pausing to scowl at his instrument in disgust.

The soldiers even joined in, shouting, "O, Richard! O my king, the world is all forsaking thee," with particular exuberance, as they did not seem to be able to recall the rest of the lyrics.

"They're quite… murdering that song," Sir Andrew commented, almost as appalled at the singing as he was at the script of the play performed earlier. Sir Percy sighed in agreement. Mademoiselle Poudreuse was sitting with her fingertips at her temples, looking as if she was suffering from a migraine. Mademoiselle St Just, hugging her elbows, seemed quite amused by the whole situation, and her lovely countenance was gradually returning to its normal coloring.

Then the battle lines were drawn. While the song "_Pent on affliger ce qu'on aime?_" was played, the Queen handed a courtier something, and the Queen's ladies, all of whom were adorned with lilies, began passing out white cockades. Several other ladies began to pass out black cockades and Sir Percy raised his eyebrows. White was one of the colors of the Borbon dynasty, and was a color still tolerated by the peoples of France. Black, however, was the Queen's color, an Austrian color, and was a color that mysteriously attracted the torches of the peoples of France.

The young officer who had proposed the toast to the nation was the only one of his compatriots still seated. He looked extremely worried, and was twirling the stem of his wine glass between his fingers.

The Royal Family departed, beaming and waving at their followers with enthusiasm. The Queen even lifted one of the Dauphin's hands and waved it at a group of nobles, who, bowed and shouted happily, though indiscernibly. The Dauphin was almost in tears from confusion and the loud noise of the room.

"Poor little mite," Sir Percy murmured, lowering his quizzing glass. "He only wants to sleep."

Sir Andrew carefully made his way over to Sir Percy, who turned to look at him. "Percy… is it really a good idea for them to do this? Passing out the cockades, I mean. There are representatives here… and Republicans…." If Sir Andrew's gaze strayed from his friend to the actresses, could one blame him?

"No, Andrew," Sir Percy replied quietly, toying with his quizzing glass. "This was not a wise thing to do." He shook his head. "I can't see any good coming from this."

"Cockade, anyone?" inquired Mademoiselle de Laurent, saccharinely. She opened her reticule and withdrew several black and white cockades, and passed them around. Mademoiselle de Laurent quickly murmured something about a headache, placed her fingertips to her temples once more and closed her eyes.

'_There are many ways of saying 'no'_,' Sir Percy thought, amused. '_Saying nothing and avoiding the question entirely seems to work particularly well._'

Sir Andrew accepted a white cockade and struggled to pin it to his jacket, sending occasional, troubled glances at everyone else in the box. This impaired his ability to pin on the cockade considerably. Déroulède was given a black cockade, and he weighed it in the palm of his right hand, as if unsure he would wear it or not.

Before Tony could say anything at all, Mademoiselle de Laurent pinned both a black and a white cockade to his evening coat. Sir Percy contemplated pretending to fall asleep to avoid accepting or rejecting a cockade; he had fallen asleep in other equally unlikely places before. Just last week, he had pretended to fall asleep in the middle of a game of _vignt-et-un_ in order to remove himself and Sir Andrew from the company one particularly conniving lady whom Sir Percy had mentally nicknamed 'Lady Macbeth'.

However, Mademoiselle de Laurent ignored Sir Percy entirely and turned to Mademoiselle St Just with a simpering smile.

"Would you care for a white cockade, Mademoiselle St Just?" she inquired, with greatest condescension.

Mademoiselle St Just managed a forced, rather tight smile. "I thank you, but I do not have a pin."

"A lily, perhaps?" Mademoiselle de Laurent offered, with the gaze of a wide- eyed innocent.

Mademoiselle St Just's eyes glinted coldly. Sir Percy was somewhat startled by the change, though, he had to admit, her eyes now flashed and sparkled with all the radiance of gemstones. "I thank you, no. I am afraid it would clash with the rest of my ensemble." Very stiffly and swiftly, she turned back to view the banquet, in time for her to hear one captain exclaim, or rather, bellow, "There now, take off that one for a better one! This cockade's much better!"

Sir Percy raised his quizzing glass to his eye, secretly relieved that he wouldn't have to make his political stance known. To him, politics had always been a very private subject. He was startled to see the young officer (who had made the toast to the nation), hauled up out of his chair by his tricolor cockade.

His superior officer tore the cockade off his lieutenant's jacket, upsetting the younger man's wine glass, and tossed the offending cockade over his shoulder. It was replaced by a black cockade, and the humiliated young officer was left trying to dab the wine stains out of his uniform

Mademoiselle Poudreuse exhaled in a long hiss. Mademoiselle St Just became very pink and trembled slightly. Sir Percy wanted desperately to think of something, anything, to say, but his mind was oddly blank. He flushed, angry and embarrassed with himself, and rapped himself on the hand with his quizzing glass.

"Come now," called the red-nosed guardsmen who had introduced the play that evening. "Let us dance!" Sir Percy was momentarily surprised. He had thought the guardsman would have been passed out in the chocolate mousse, before now, from utter inebriation.

The band, somewhat baffled, began hurriedly searching through their sheet music until they found music for a cotillion. The officers, who seemed steadier on their feet, grabbed the hands of ladies-in-waiting and they all began to dance, with little grace, skill, or accuracy. Sir Percy peered through his quizzing glass, and thought he saw one captain trip over a tricolor cockade, and promptly step on it as he righted himself.

"Did you see that?" Mademoiselle St Just asked softly, with a glance toward Mademoiselle Poudreuse. "The officer who tripped?"

Mademoiselle Poudreuse nodded, eyes narrowed.

Sir Percy found a quote of Molière's to fit the situation, and he intoned, "'All the ills of mankind, all the tragic misfortunes that fill the history books, all the political blunders, all the failures of the great leaders have arisen merely from a lack of skill at dancing.'"

Mademoiselle St Just turned to look at him and smiled wanly. "Perhaps Molière wins this round."

Sir Percy was spared from replying by virtue of the fact that the dance ended, and one of the less intelligent trumpet players began to sound the charge. Playing a charge when officers, especially drunken ones, are about, is not really wise; years of training have made their reaction to the sound of a charge immediate and unified. A majority of the men charged, with a fierce cry of "To the assault!", at the opera boxes.

"It's Psyche!' exclaimed an officer, brandishing a saber at the box. "And Aphrodite! The goddess of love smiles upon us!"

"The goddess of love has a headache and wants to go home," Mademoiselle Poudreuse replied, loudly. "My apologies, sir," she added, once the man had managed to struggle up the side of the box and grasp the ledge, "but I find that the claims of health are stronger than those of the heart."

With utmost _sang-froid_ (even Sir Percy, who had nearly perfected his own display, was impressed by it), she rapped the man's hands with her fan, and stood. "Psyche, my dear daughter-in-law, shall we depart?"

Mademoiselle St Just, a rosy blush still coloring her cheeks, nodded and curtsied politely. "Of course." She then assumed the quiet obedience and wide-eyed innocence of Psyche and added, "As always, _belle-mère_, I am obedient to your wishes."

"What?" hiccupped one officer, trying to climb over his companion. "Psyche abandoned by her… what's his name?"

"Eros?" Sir Percy supplied, trying very hard to keep his irritation in check. He calmly managed to interpose himself between the actresses and the officer and drew himself up to his full height. Being over six foot had its advantages.

"That's my head," the first man declared loudly, before disappearing from the railing.

Mademoiselle St Just, curls falling over her forehead in a terribly distracting manner, glanced up at Sir Percy with alarm. Sir Percy thought he might blush, but managed to suppress the impulse in time to see the officer attempt to swing himself over the railing.

"Grant us a kiss Mademoiselle Psyche!" he cried.

"Most certainly not," Mademoiselle St Just retorted fiercely.

"My dear sir," Sir Percy drawled, now thoroughly annoyed at this man's cheek. "You can't have expected to have your request taken seriously with that shoddy scrap of silk around your neck. You call that a cravat, man? Your tailor would be thoroughly ashamed." He gestured at the man's stained coat with his quizzing glass. "And those terrible buttons! Why, sir, I can hardly bring myself to look upon them. You must go immediately to your tailor and demand satisfaction for pressing such an abomination of coats upon you. 'Tis positively shameful… and that collar! Oh!"

"What?" the officer replied, confused at Sir Percy's insults. However, the insults did what they intended to; namely, put the man off-balance. This proved more literal than Sir Percy expected, as the man nearly toppled off the railing, to the floor of the theatre.

"That officer's behavior was appalling," Sir Andrew muttered, as Sir Percy and the actresses moved to leave.

"Though not so surprising," Mademoiselle de Laurent whispered, almost conspiratorially. "You can't expect anyone to treat _actresses_ politely. It's not as if they're ladies, and I dare say _actresses_ are used to such attentions."

Mademoiselle St Just was so furious that she turned scarlet. When she turned to walk out of the box, she took special care to swish her skirts around her, causing her elbow to knock into Mademoiselle de Laurent's. Mademoiselle St Just curtsied once, with a quick, "Oh, pardon me, I'm dreadfully sorry" and then she swept out of the box.

"Be careful," Mademoiselle Poudreuse advised icily, "champagne stains terribly." She gestured at the front of Mademoiselle de Laurent's ivory colored gown, which had turned pink from the champagne. Mademoiselle de Laurent choked on an unladylike oath and began dabbing at her dress with a white cockade. Sir Percy glanced at his sleeve, and schooled his features into a quiet mask of indifference. He bowed and offered his arm to Mademoiselle Poudreuse, with all the respect and courtesy he would have used when addressing a queen. Mademoiselle de Laurent's astonished facial expression was well worth the effort, and Sir Percy, with some difficulty, managed to maintain his usual inane smile.

The hallways were empty, though littered with abandoned glasses and fallen flowers. Mademoiselle St Just was already ahead of them, muttering to herself in her native French, and did not appear sensible of their presence.

"_Dies irae,_" Sir Percy muttered, eyes on her retreating figure.

"Hmm," was Mademoiselle Poudreuse's noncommittal reply.

They found Zephyr at the entrance to the theatre. "Ah!" the actor exclaimed with a smile. "I had given up on you, and was heading out."

As the footmen had all mysteriously vanished, Sir Percy was recruited into helping the ladies find their cloaks and bonnets, as was the gentle Zephyr (who was introduced as Mathieu Brel). Digging through an untidy pile of cloaks and throwing most of them into a yet untidier pile on another table served to calm Mademoiselle St Just's temper, and she soon retrieved cloak, bonnet, and normal coloring.

Sir Percy calmly helped Mademoiselle St Just into her cloak, though he felt uneasy and slightly apprehensive at the prospect of Mademoiselle St Just's departure.

"_Merci,_" Mademoiselle St Just murmured, adjusting her bonnet. Then she paused a moment and turned to face him. "Sir Percy… you must think dreadfully ill of me for jostling Mademoiselle de Laurent's drink. I dare say I shall feel very guilty about it before I go to bed, and go to Confession tomorrow to beg God for forgiveness, but now…?" She waved her hand in a helpless gesture. "I hope her dress is _ruined_."

"There are few people, Mademoiselle," Sir Percy replied, attempting to keep the laughter from his voice, "that would not be angered. I cannot fault you for that."

Mademoiselle St Just smiled uneasily. "I would not, however, wish to leave you with a poor impression of myself."

Though Sir Percy was at a loss to understand her, he felt keenly the hope her words seemed to offer. After forcing himself to remain calm, Sir Percy smiled and said, "I believe that to be quite impossible."

Mademoiselle St Just smiled happily. Sir Percy's heart sped up. '_If this continues,'_ he thought irritably, '_I think I shall have to see a doctor._'

"Long live the Queen!" called one soldier, bursting into the cloakroom. He fell at the feet of Mademoiselle Poudruese, who had been tying the ribbons of her bonnet.

"As much as I appreciate your deference," Mademoiselle Poudreuse commented dryly, "you, Monsieur, are blocking the doorway."

The soldier stood unsteadily and staggered towards Mademoiselle St Just. She carefully stepped behind Sir Percy, who fixed his coldest, haughtiest glare upon the inebriated officer. The man seemed very likely to fall over. "M'dear sir, you look terribly unsteady. A chair might be a more respectable refuge than the floor, however inclined you are to lie upon it."

The man stared at him uncomprehendingly, and Sir Percy smiled at him inanely before quickly escorting Mademoiselle St Just out of the room. It seemed the officers' sense was following fast on the heels of their long-departed propriety. In the hall, Sir Percy and Mademoiselle St Just were assaulted by yet another drunken lieutenant, who declared that Sir Percy was "Emperor Julius Caesar" and wondered if "His Grace would kindly introduce him to Cleopatra."

"I'm afraid she stayed home tonight," Mademoiselle St Just retorted brightly.

"Then I shall be happy to meet Calpurnia," the officer informed Sir Percy cheerfully, before nearly collapsing on Mademoiselle St Just. Sir Percy caught the man before he hit her, took aim a moment, and propelled the man into a conveniently placed chair. He received applause for this feat of skill from Monsieur Brel, who genially added, "I see you have been elevated from the rank of knighthood, Sir Percy, to that of Emperor."

Sir Percy executed a small bow, and offered his arm to Mademoiselle St Just, who distractedly murmured, "Imagine! Julius Caesar is British now!"

"You see?" Sir Percy drawled, leading her out. "Even long-dead Roman senators switch their allegiance to England when given the opportunity."

Mademoiselle St Just managed a smile at the sally, but did seem inclined to defend France's virtues once more. "Sir Percy… do you return to England soon?" she questioned abruptly, turning her face up to him. Her eyes were a lovely shade of dark blue, and Sir Percy momentarily forgot to keep walking.

"Er… Sir Andrew, Lord Tony, and I leave for the East next week," he responded lamely. He currently couldn't remember which country they were going to, or when they were leaving, but he found that deciding what shade of blue Mademoiselle St Just's eyes were was far more important than such trivial details about his travel plans.

Mademoiselle St Just regarded him warily a moment, and her hand went to her bracelet. "Could you leave earlier?"

_That _was a shock. Sir Percy abruptly came to his senses, as if she had dumped a bucket of ice water over his head. "I… suppose we could leave in two days, if needed."

"Do," she replied quietly. Her gaze remained fixed on the marble step they were standing on, and Sir Percy felt terribly stupid. He should have known that someone as witty and intelligent and _beautiful_ as Mademoiselle St Just would not wish a dull, hopelessly stupid Englishman like him around.

Sir Percy's heart began to hurt, and he bowed. "As my lady commands."

She turned to him, still twisting her bracelet and bit her lip. "Sir Percy… what happened tonight… in Paris, they will not be happy. The people have been oppressed for far too long." Sir Percy had no idea where she was going with this line of reasoning, but they began walking to the carriage once more.

Mademoiselle St Just glanced at him sidelong, as if to gauge his reaction. Sir Percy remained as stolid and expressionless as possible. She continued, almost bitterly, "The nobility has never cared for anyone from any other social class—the poor, the bourgeois, the peasants… they care even less _now_ than before. Most people can't afford to buy bread, and the upper echelons of society just held a _banquet_. They trampled on the _tricolour_, the symbol of the people's hopes!" She had to pause to retain her composure. Sir Percy glanced at her and found that he suddenly couldn't look away. Her eyes had turned purple.

"When they hear of this in Paris, they will want revenge. It doesn't matter on _whom_." She bit her lip and stopped walking, as they had arrived at the coach. She turned her face up to him again, her eyes (_still the same marvelous color they were five seconds ago, so look a_way_ Blakeney, you demmed fool_) sparkling in the fading light. "Get out of France, Sir Percy. The people will have their revenge for this night, and you don't deserve such a fate."

Apparently, she didn't consider him as evil as other members of the nobility. That wasn't exactly the impression of himself he would have wanted to leave her with, but it was better than 'that stupid English fellow who kept following me around all night.' He bowed and handed her into the carriage. He forced a small smile, just to be polite.

She appeared worried when she looked at him next and whispered, "You're different from any other nobleman I've met; you care about others. You even think we actresses are worthy of respect… I heard you when you escorted Fauve out of the box. Don't change." She smiled at him, then, unexpectedly, leaned out and kissed his cheek. Sir Percy turned crimson. Mademoiselle Poudreuse and Monsieur Brel called out '_adieu'_s; Mademoiselle St Just gave him another smile, and the carriage drove off before Sir Percy was capable of coherent speech.

Sir Percy stood on the steps, still blushing violently, and watched the carriage drive off into the darkness. When he could no longer see its murky silhouette, he touched his fingers to his cheek, and thought he could feel the softness and warmth of her lips there.

'_I shall have to see a doctor about this,'_ he thought dazedly. _'I had all sorts of heart trouble this evening, and now I'm hallucinating._' He turned to go in, quietly arranging plans to leave for the East, and wondering over a great many things. Foremost on his mind was Mademoiselle St Just. It is uncertain if, in his solitary walk, he prayed to meet her again, but when Sir Andrew and Lord Tony met him in the corridor as they, reluctantly, escorted Mademoiselle de Laurent out; Sir Percy suddenly realized he _loved_ Mademoiselle St Just.

Sir Percy was quite stunned at this—in his twenty-odd years on Earth, he had never expected, nor been particularly inclined, to fall in love. It was a strange feeling, and Sir Percy wondered if he would ever get over this…"infatuation." He somehow doubted it.


End file.
